Everyone else did a poem, so I decided to be a rebel and write a story. I cut and pasted this from my school blog, from which there is not such thing as paragraphs, so bare with me.
The Chronicles of Monarth
Book Three: Prologue
The castle, tall and impenetrable, sat on the edge of a rock just overlooking the ocean. Large ice edged waves crashed against the jagged rocks; water flying into the air. Clouds violently rained water down upon the shoreline, causing the rider to slow in the mud. Then after a couple of feet, the rider pulled on the reins of the horse and slowed to a stop. Just in front of the rider was the castle. However, the rider did not lead his horse up the stone causeway. He turned his horse around and his eyes scanned the ominous forest.
"YAH!" he cried. He guided his horse around the side of the stronghold, and began galloping at full speed along a coastal dirt road. His horse was fast, but just out of the trees came two more riders, also galloping at full speed. Summer rain spilled out of the clouded heavens cleansing the land with a refreshing coolness. Flashes of lightning flooded the land, showing the power of a mid summer storm.
The two perusing riders each drew their swords and charged at their fastest speed; fulfilling their need for battle. Their horses were faster than that of the lone rider, but he was by far the more skilled swordsman. The moment they caught up with him, he whirled his sword through the air, and knocked their weapons onto the wet ground. As soon as each rider was weaponless, he continued on in a slower gallop, but still hastily. The old road led him away from the stormy shoreline into the safety of the forest. His silhouette blended in with that of the leafy trees as he road along in careful silence; for he knew he was not alone. He kept his hand on his blade just in case....
Arrows shot by, just missing his hooded head. He kicked his heals against his horse and galloped once more. There was no safe place in the mists of the trees. The clearing was near, just one hundred feet. He knew he was a sitting duck to the master marksmen hiding in the forest. The time it would take to fire another shot: zero seconds. The second arrow came, just missing the leg of his horse. He was lucky. Rangers this skilled would not miss often. The third arrow would not miss its mark. Some rangers fired a placement arrow, judging the distance. Then, they would fire the true shot, and they would rarely miss.
The only thing to do in this situation; throw the ranger off guard, do something he would not expect. Turning his horse into the woods would be foolish. Trying to make his tired horse move faster to the edge of the forest would only seal his fate, and jumping off his horse and charging would only make it easier for the ranger. So, he did the only sensible thing. He pulled on the reins of his horse, and stopped dead in his tracks. Turning his head toward the direction of the arrow, he pulled off his hood and showed his identity.
Suddenly, out of the forest, rose a short man, holding a wooden bow. His eyes were wide with fear, and his mouth dropped open. Slowly he turned and cautiously walked away. His walked soon turned into a run. A smile formed on the face of the rider. His reputation had only grown during his time away, and only fear had grown in his enemies. Regardless, he was running out of time. They would strike quickly, before Monarth would have any chance to fight back.
He resumed his gallop, and sped across Red Plains. This place brought back memories. So many souls, good and evil died on that ground. He brought his horse to a stop, looking around at the tall grass, undisturbed for so long. The trees, unlike that of the forest he was just in, were tall and majestic. They had seen so much, and had gained so much knowledge over the years of his absence. The last time he was here, they were not even fully grown trees. It gave him happiness to know that they were still standing, in the midst of a growing war.
Towards the middle of the Red Plains, he saw a great statue. A dull war-torn sword was gripped in the hands of a tall warrior. He held it high in the air, his mouth wide opening signaling a rally. This of course was the famous Lord Breylen. He was known for having saved the King and his brother from death by taking command of the armies and defeating Lord Valkon at the Battle of the Seven Waves. However, he died during the battle from an arrow in his heart.
The rider began again his gallop once more, just coming to the edge of the Red Plains. He had even less time than he thought. With the enemy on the warpath, there could be no time spared. He did not stop his gallop towards the capital.
The Gates of Monarth! There, just over the ridge, seen through the tall grass, a massive guard tower; the carefully built walls, portcullis and wooden gates. At this time of year, the gates were open to all. He led his white horse under the stone battlements, and kept his hood up over his head, just coming over his hair line. He didn’t have time to let people know his identity; not yet at least. He had an urgent message for King Frederic.
The Capital was just two miles from the Eastern Wall. His horse continued on, sensing that the end was near. Galloping for a full day was hard on a horse. Especially when carrying a rider. However, this time, the horse seemed to slow down. She had never done that before. Few horses ever stopped before they reach their destination.
Something wasn’t right. It was as if the horse had a sixth sense. It could feel something in the ground, or smell something in the air. Just as they came to a hill in the road, the rider eyes widened, and his stopped to an abrupt halt.
Smoke! Flames! The capital of Monarth was ablaze. The rider unsheathed his sword, and cast down his hood, galloping swiftly back towards the Gates of Monarth not two miles down the road.